


the holly and the (poison) ivy

by Fernstrike



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: BUT I HOPE YOU ENJOy THIS, Cultural Differences, Fluff, Gen, Headcanon, Worldbuilding, i don't know european flora, kind of, long sentences, mechanical lepidopterae, sauron is basically a grumpy cat and would-be grinch, thank goodness for celebrimbor, this ended up way less shippy and way more wintry than expected, unexpected memento mori
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:27:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21924391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fernstrike/pseuds/Fernstrike
Summary: Annatar has only so much patience for Elvish holidays. Unfortunately, it is not only elves living in Ost-in-Edhil.
Relationships: Celebrimbor | Telperinquar & Sauron | Mairon
Comments: 6
Kudos: 25
Collections: Tolkien Secret Santa 2019





	the holly and the (poison) ivy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EveningAlchemist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EveningAlchemist/gifts).



It was one thing to be Annatar walking - drifting, really - to the great workshop of Ost-in-Edhil on any given day, surrounded by faces bright with excitement, most of them preening and pallid and prosaic, with only a select few gems staying in their places and inviting him over with knowing smiles and rolled eyes to something worth seeing.

It was another thing entirely to be Annatar walking to the forges of Ost-in-Edhil at midwinter.

The air was syrupy with the scents of mulled wine, sweet incenses, and burning cherry and walnut fires, cut through by the winds of the waning day carrying the scents of holly, pine, and juniper, all trying to force their way into the carefully constructed nostrils of his _fana_ as he adamantly tried to keep them out. Much as he tried to do, indeed, with the raucous laughter and endless singing. Elven voices were beautiful, he would give them that, but his own Words existed beyond the concept of beauty and could outsing theirs in a heartbeat, if he deigned to give them voice. He could spin dark webs and hollow openings and creeping shadows in corners to darken this darkest day of the year even further. He could sing this entire city to the ground if he really, _really_ willed it so.

A garland of twisted wheat and red ribbons fell from a lintel into his face and he batted at it like a disgruntled cat. The annoyance crawling across his nerves was enough to make him almost consider singing that particular swan song. 

Annatar was not _unaware_ of the blessed year-markers of the Eldar, of course. In earlier days, in lands now deep under water where there was no holly and no ivy, he had heard elves in his dungeons and in the slave-pits of Angband singing songs under their breath, scraps of verse and images about the brief cherry and almond blossoms, the orchids and the bluebells, the wreaths and table-spreads of _Yestarë_. Allowed to go on with measure, he’d directed, for to quash all hope would hardly allow for an efficient and able workforce - but never encouraged, and always noted for the aggravation.

He had known that he would eventually have to partake in it, and of _Mettarë_ the day before, and had already observed a few of these occasions in the months he had already been here He had not, however, realised that the Eldar would deign to also observe the _Mettarë_ of the Mannish reckoning.

“We have apprentices and craftsmen learning trades here,” Tyelperinquar had explained some days before, with Annatar barely concealing having choked on his clove tea. “Hardly a great number, of course, but that does not mean they are not present - men from Númenor, even some from the lands surrounding ours, men living along the river, in the hills -”

“That does not mean you are required to host their festivities,” Annatar had cut in, frowning over the rim of his drinking bowl. 

Tyelperinquar, true to form, had rolled his eyes. “You are very much at liberty to tell me of any special, secret festival of the Ainur I’ve never heard of, should you wish to celebrate it,” he had said, and given a smile so open and self-aware that Annatar almost forgave him the ridiculousness of it. He scowled at him instead.

“They’re part of our brotherhood in their own way,” the elf had gone on, kindly and earnestly. “They help us accrue the incredible wealth and resources to build our city and pursue our projects. They’ve as much right to observe their festivals here in the city, and if they’re happy for us to share in it - and, indeed, they are - why not?”

 _I wonder if you, too, see it as a small mercy to keep the fragile fabric of this place knitted together,_ Annatar had thought in the part of his mind locked under vaults and ciphers, safe from Tyelperinquar and the _ósanwe_ they tapped into whenever working side-by-side in the forge. Perhaps it was too much to think of him as following the other strands of Annatar’s mind, the ones belonging to Mairon and Angband and the war. 

_Perhaps that is good._

* * *

If Elvish _Mettarë_ was a day to festoon every lintel and pillar and mantel and windowpane with the flowers of spring, then Mannish _Mettarë_ was just as decorative. Annatar felt little of the cold as he entered the fire- and candle-bright workshop, surprisingly full for the morning. Workers stooped tinkering with some final necklace or bracelet, or stood chattering with steaming mugs of mulled wine by barren workbenches dressed in wreaths of holly and juniper and spruce. He acknowledged them with a blanket nod, and carried on into his personal space, gifted by Tyelperinquar when he had first arrived. 

It was here he would find some peace of mind, at least from the dalliances of the Elves. He would have to learn to love them, in his own way, should he ever hope to succeed in his aim; to work _with_ them so that they might understand why he had to work _above_ them, one day. For now, he simply wanted to work his mind to some kind of rest, for peace was a foreign country to him.

He pumped the bellows and let the embers grow to flames in the grate, warming him, burning him. Then he sat and began to fiddle with bits of wire, letting his mind Sing dark, fluttering images into existence.

_The coldest months, the shortest day, these were the times he was reminded of Utumno. He remembered snow. He remembered the permafrost crawling over and into his fiery skin as he made himself forget the warmth of Almaren. He remembered a mountain crowned with it, for there were not yet Silmarils to crown him in place of ice._

His hand darted into a drawer and scattered a leather bag of tiny white crystals onto the work table.

_He remembered old years, long days, bats' wings and black moths on walls, long since adapted to the shadows and ash they now lived in. A vampire on the post of his great seat whispering idle conversation as he stroked the head of a werewolf lounging by the fire, a creature of shadow as warm-blooded as he. The flickering of wings, the flapping of shadows to cover starlight._

He twisted the wires into the points of long phalanges and bent them round a spine like a creature unfurled from a cocoon.

_He remembered the first winter after the war, in a cave, cloaked in his own darkness, in his own shame, in his own anger, meditating his way into dreams and strange paths, remembering what he was, beginning to see the inklings of plans for how he could return to Mairon-as-he-should-be, rather than Mairon-as-he-was, suddenly, uncertain of the warmth of his blood, suddenly hating the ice for all the torment it brought his heart._

He clothed the little thing with taut planes of black spider silk, and set gears in its vertebrae like those that had long worked in his mind.

_A thing to bring black tidings, to halt the return of the sun, to remind these so-called free peoples why freedom was such a terrible thing, when it led you astray from your path, your people, your home -_

“You need not ensconce yourself, you know.”

Annatar had been so focused that he had not picked up on Tyelperinquar’s approach. He was wise and measured enough not to jump as he rose and slowly turned, unveiling the creation in his hands. Some kind of moth, it appeared to be, yet with wings like a bat, black and silver and inlaid with eyes and little points of gold. A creature not of the world as it was. _Of the world as it should be,_ Annatar thought, and suddenly, the creature wasn’t what it was. It was a memento, not a herald. A reminder of what came before - and what would come again, if all did not go as he, Annatar, the inheritor of these lands, willed it. 

A thought hit him, and suddenly he didn't desire that, either.

Silently, secretly, so the elf would never know, Annatar sent a jolt of intent into the little device to rid it of his memories and clear it of his bitterness. The action made the wings jump and flutter into motion. Tyelperinquar beamed as the thing took off with slow beats of its wings, bobbing through the air. He caught it by the body and lowered it onto his palm, the motion and gears stilling in response to the elf's calm aura.

“I’m not entirely sure I understand,” Tyelperinquar said, with an uncertain smile. “What is it for?”

Annatar paused for only a second. “It is a gift.”

It was Tyelperinquar’s turn to pause a second. He blinked. “What?”

“It...is me living up to my name,” Annatar said carefully, closing Tyelperinquar’s fingers - limned by a strange silver-gold in the firelight refracted through the tiny white gems - around the contraption. “This is what the mortals do, is it not? I saw them running amok yesterday, gathering together all sorts of hampers for their fellow man, and there were yet many in the workshop now.”

Annatar eyed Tyelperinquar for a precious few seconds longer - the surprise, the mild confusion, melting to a simple acceptance that he almost never seemed to partake of in the company of his other guild brethren, ever prodding, ever inquiring, ever debating. It may have been the dreaded spirit of the season clouding Annatar’s mind and perception, but the elf almost looked grateful.

“This is generous,” Tyelperinquar said at last. “Although any gift you have given in the past months, Annatar, has always seemed to come with a lesson.”

Annatar averted his eyes then at last, and turned to clear the table, opening the small side window to let in a gust of cold winter air. It seemed to draw down the void of sky, dark and ever darker, as if the sun would never come up. “Consider this the singular time it does not.”

**Author's Note:**

> Dear @eveningalchemist, it is I, your secret santa! I hope you enjoyed the story - I loved writing it for you. Wishing you much happiness and prosperity this holiday season and for the new year to come (and many good vibes for the next chapter of Seduction to Destruction aaaaah!!) <3


End file.
